The Return Of Sherlock Holmes and Luanna Watson
by Luna.T.Lawliet
Summary: Sherlock Holmes plummeted to his death at the falls, leaving a broken Luanna to pick up the broken pieces of her life and try to function as normal. How will it go? Sherlock/OC/John. Based on Granada TV shows and book. Better than it sounds. Sherlock is a little OOC. Sequel to 'The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes and Luna Watson' and 'The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes and Luanna Watson'.
1. The Empty House: Chapter One

_**Hey! I'm back! **_

_**Haven't you missed me soooo much? Hahaha **_

_**Right then, down to business…**_

_**This is the first chapter of my newest story in the 'Sherlock Holmes and Luanna Watson' series of fanfiction… I'll hold for applause here hehe. **_

_**Right, from the beginning, I'm going to remind you all that I've still got a full time job which makes it a little bit difficult to write all of the time though I will dedicate parts of my weekends to getting them written for your enjoyment because nothing makes me happier than making you all happy XD**_

_**So without further a do, I present to you 'The Return of Sherlock Holmes and Luanna Watson'…**_

_**I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it**_

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It was in the spring of the year 1894 that all London was interested, and the fashionable world dismayed, by the murder of the Honourable Ronald Adair under most unusual and inexplicable circumstances.

The public had already learned those particulars of the crime which came out in the police investigation, but a good deal was suppressed upon that occasion, since the case for the prosecution was so overwhelmingly strong that it was not necessary to bring forward all the facts.

Only now, at the end of nearly ten years, am I allowed to supply those missing links which make up the whole of that remarkable chain. The crime was of interest in itself, but that interest was as nothing to me compared to the inconceivable sequel, which afforded me the greatest shock and surprise of any event in my adventurous life.

Even now, after this long interval, I find myself thrilling as I think of it, and feeling once more that sudden flood of joy, amazement, and incredulity which utterly submerged my mind. Let me say to that public, which has shown some interest in those glimpses which I have occasionally given them of the thoughts and actions of a very remarkable man, that they are not to blame me if I have not shared my knowledge with them, for I should have considered it my first duty to do so, had I not been barred by a positive prohibition from his own lips, which was only withdrawn upon the third of last month.

It can be imagined that, through my close intimacy and work with Sherlock Holmes and Luna, I had developed a deep interest in crime; after his disappearance, I never failed to read with care the various problems which came before the public. And I even attempted, more than once, for my own private satisfaction, to employ his methods in their solution, though with indifferent success. However, whenever I attempted to include my sister, she would silently leave the room.

There was none, however, which appealed to me like this tragedy of Ronald Adair.

As I read the evidence at the inquest, which led up to a verdict of willful murder against some person or persons unknown, I realized more clearly than I had ever done the loss which the community had sustained by the death of Sherlock Holmes and my sister. There were points about this strange business which would, I was sure, have specially appealed to them, and the efforts of the police would have been supplemented, or more probably anticipated, by the trained observation and the alert mind of the first criminal agent in Europe.

All day, as I drove upon my round, I turned over the case in my mind and found no explanation which appeared to me to be adequate. At the risk of telling a twice-told tale, I will recapitulate the facts as they were known to the public at the conclusion of the inquest.

The Honourable Ronald Adair was the second son of the Earl of Maynooth, at that time governor of one of the Australian colonies. Adair's mother had returned from Australia to undergo the operation for cataract, and she, her son Ronald, and her daughter Hilda were living together at 427 Park Lane. The youth moved in the best society—had, so far as was known, no enemies and no particular vices. He had been engaged to Miss Edith Woodley, of Carstairs, but the engagement had been broken off by mutual consent some months before, and there was no sign that it had left any very profound feeling behind it. For the rest {sic} the man's life moved in a narrow and conventional circle, for his habits were quiet and his nature unemotional. Yet it was upon this easy-going young aristocrat that death came, in most strange and unexpected form, between the hours of ten and eleven-twenty on the night of March 30, 1894.

Ronald Adair was fond of cards—playing continually, but never for such stakes as would hurt him. He was a member of the Baldwin, the Cavendish, and the Bagatelle card clubs. It was shown that, after dinner on the day of his death, he had played a rubber of whist at the latter club. He had also played there in the afternoon. The evidence of those who had played with him—Mr. Murray, Sir John Hardy, and Colonel Moran—showed that the game was whist, and that there was a fairly equal fall of the cards. Adair might have lost five pounds, but not more. His fortune was a considerable one, and such a loss could not in any way affect him. He had played nearly every day at one club or other, but he was a cautious player, and usually rose a winner. It came out in evidence that, in partnership with Colonel Moran, he had actually won as much as four hundred and twenty pounds in a sitting, some weeks before, from Godfrey Milner and Lord Balmoral. So much for his recent history as it came out at the inquest.

On the evening of the crime, he returned from the club exactly at ten. His mother and sister were out spending the evening with a relation. The servant deposed that she heard him enter the front room on the second floor, generally used as his sitting-room. She had lit a fire there, and as it smoked she had opened the window. No sound was heard from the room until eleven-twenty, the hour of the return of Lady Maynooth and her daughter. Desiring to say good-night, she attempted to enter her son's room. The door was locked on the inside, and no answer could be got to their cries and knocking. Help was obtained, and the door forced. The unfortunate young man was found lying near the table. His head had been horribly mutilated by an expanding revolver bullet, but no weapon of any sort was to be found in the room. On the table lay two banknotes for ten pounds each and seventeen pounds ten in silver and gold, the money arranged in little piles of varying amount. There were some figures also upon a sheet of paper, with the names of some club friends opposite to them, from which it was conjectured that before his death he was endeavouring to make out his losses or winnings at cards.

A minute examination of the circumstances served only to make the case more complex. In the first place, no reason could be given why the young man should have fastened the door upon the inside. There was the possibility that the murderer had done this, and had afterwards escaped by the window. The drop was at least twenty feet, however, and a bed of crocuses in full bloom lay beneath. Neither the flowers nor the earth showed any sign of having been disturbed, nor were there any marks upon the narrow strip of grass which separated the house from the road. Apparently, therefore, it was the young man himself who had fastened the door. But how did he come by his death? No one could have climbed up to the window without leaving traces. Suppose a man had fired through the window, he would indeed be a remarkable shot who could with a revolver inflict so deadly a wound. Again, Park Lane is a frequented thoroughfare; there is a cab stand within a hundred yards of the house. No one had heard a shot. And yet there was the dead man and there the revolver bullet, which had mushroomed out, as soft-nosed bullets will, and so inflicted a wound which must have caused instantaneous death. Such were the circumstances of the Park Lane Mystery, which were further complicated by entire absence of motive, since, as I have said, young Adair was not known to have any enemy, and no attempt had been made to remove the money or valuables in the room.

All day I turned these facts over in my mind, endeavouring to hit upon some theory which could reconcile all of them, and to find that line of least resistance which my poor friend had once declared to the starting-point of every investigation.

I confess that I made little progress and, in need of help, I turned to the empty shell of my sister who had been staring out of the window though her eyes were unfocused and it was obvious that her mind was far away from Baker Street, bathing in the spray of the Reinbach falls.

"Luna, what thoughts do you have on the case?" I had asked, hoping to see some light return to those dead eyes that I had been forced to look into but that did not happen. Instead, they closed as she turned away from the window to face me. To describe how much my baby sister had changed was difficult but, my dear reader, I shall try my best.

Her once deep mahogany curls had lost all lustre and now hanged lifelessly from her head, her eyes had dulled in colour and lost all of their life, growing fainter day by day as the whites were slowly stained crimson from sleepless nights of tears. Her frame had dwindled down to an alarming size, to the point where a corsets strings needed to be trimmed in order to be able to pull it tight enough to hug her thin frame. Of course, as her brother and her doctor, I had tried to get her to eat but she would simply stare at me with those dead eyes before fleeing the room to take solace in his room, amongst all the things we couldn't bring ourselves to part with.

"None…" she whispered, her voice soft and hoarse from lack of use. It was difficult to get a sentence from her since that day and the sight of what she had become broke my heart but I knew that hers had been shattered that day and it was going to take a lot of time and patience to heal, especially since she had withdrawn from society; the only people she would interact with was myself, Mary, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft and Lestrade and though we all tried to visit the flat as much as possible, she still was left alone a lot of the time. "Sherlock…" she choked as tears began to fill her eyes. As always, I walked over and wrapped an arm around her trembling form, trying to comfort her in any way I could. "... w-would have."

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_**So, what do you think?**_

_**Do you like it, hate it, love it?**_

_**Do you just want me to take it down and crawl back into my little black hole?**_

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	2. The Empty House: Chapter Two

_**You asked for it, I've answered because I love you all XD**_

_**To be honest, nothing makes me happier than seeing my inbox filled with emails from ' ', telling me that people actually enjoy reading what I write for a hobby :) There truly is no greater compliment to an aspiring author :)**_

_**So, without further ado, I present to you...**_

**_The second chapter of 'The Empty House'._**

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In the evening, I strolled across the park and found myself about six o'clock at the Oxford Street end of Park Lane. A group of loafers upon the pavements, all staring up at a particular window, directed me to the house which I had come to see. A tall, thin man with coloured glasses, whom I strongly suspected of being a plain-clothes detective, was pointing out some theory of his own, while the others crowded round to listen to what he said. I got as near him as I could, but his observations seemed to me to be absurd, so I withdrew again in some disgust. As I did so I struck against an elderly, deformed man, who had been behind me, and I knocked down several books which he was carrying. I remember that as I picked them up, I observed the title of one of them, THE ORIGIN OF TREE WORSHIP, and it struck me that the fellow must be some poor bibliophile, who, either as a trade or as a hobby, was a collector of obscure volumes. I endeavoured to apologize for the accident, but it was evident that these books which I had so unfortunately maltreated were very precious objects in the eyes of their owner. With a snarl of contempt he turned upon his heel, and I saw his curved back and white side-whiskers disappear among the throng.

My observations of No. 427 Park Lane did little to clear up the problem in which I was interested. The house was separated from the street by a low wall and railing, the whole not more than five feet high. It was perfectly easy, therefore, for anyone to get into the garden, but the window was entirely inaccessible, since there was no water pipe or anything which could help the most active man to climb it. More puzzled than ever, I retraced my steps to Kensington.

I had not been in my study five minutes when the maid entered to say that a person desired to see me. To my astonishment it was none other than my strange old book collector, his sharp, wizened face peering out from a frame of white hair, and his precious volumes, a dozen of them at least, wedged under his right arm.

"You're surprised to see me, sir," said he, in a strange, croaking voice.

I acknowledged that I was.

"Well, I've a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you go into this house, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to myself, I'll just step in and see that kind gentleman, and tell him that if I was a bit gruff in my manner there was not any harm meant, and that I am much obliged to him for picking up my books."

"You make too much of a trifle," said I. "May I ask how you knew who I was?"

"Well, sir, if it isn't too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of yours, for you'll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church Street, and very happy to see you, I am sure. Maybe you collect yourself, sir. Here's BRITISH BIRDS, and CATULLUS, and THE HOLY WAR—a bargain, every one of them. With five volumes you could just fill that gap on that second shelf. It looks untidy, does it not, sir?"

I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me.

When I turned again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study table.

I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, and then it appears that I must have fainted for the first and the last time in my life. Certainly a gray mist swirled before my eyes, and when it cleared I found my collar-ends undone and the tingling after-taste of brandy upon my lips.

Holmes was bending over my chair, his flask in his hand.

"My dear Watson," said the well-remembered voice, "I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected."

I gripped him by the arms.

"Holmes!" I cried. "Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you are alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of that awful abyss?"

"Wait a moment," said he. "Are you sure that you are really fit to discuss things? I have given you a serious shock by my unnecessarily dramatic reappearance."

"I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can hardly believe my eyes. Good heavens! to think that you—you of all men—should be standing in my study." Again I gripped him by the sleeve, and felt the thin, sinewy arm beneath it. "Well, you're not a spirit anyhow," said I. "My dear chap, I'm overjoyed to see you. Sit down, and tell me how you came alive out of that dreadful chasm."

He sat opposite to me, and lit a cigarette in his old, nonchalant manner. He was dressed in the seedy frock coat of the book merchant, but the rest of that individual lay in a pile of white hair and old books upon the table. Holmes looked even thinner and keener than of old, but there was a dead-white tinge in his aquiline face which told me that his life recently had not been a healthy one.

"I am glad to stretch myself, Watson," said he. "It is no joke when a tall man has to take a foot off his stature for several hours on end. Now, my dear fellow, in the matter of these explanations, we have, if I may ask for your cooperation, a hard and dangerous night's work in front of us. Perhaps it would be better if I gave you an account of the whole situation when that work is finished."

"I am full of curiosity. I should much prefer to hear now."

"You'll come with me tonight?"

"When you like and where you like."

"This is, indeed, like the old days. We shall have time for a mouthful of dinner before we need go. Well, then, about that chasm. I had no serious difficulty in getting out of it, for the very simple reason that I never was in it."

"You never were in it?"

"No, Watson, I never was in it. My note to you was absolutely genuine. I had little doubt that I had come to the end of my career when I perceived the somewhat sinister figure of the late Professor Moriarty standing upon the narrow pathway which led to safety. I read an inexorable purpose in his gray eyes. I exchanged some remarks with him, therefore, and obtained his courteous permission to write the short note which you afterwards received. I left it with my cigarette-box and my stick, and I walked along the pathway, Moriarty still at my heels. When I reached the end I stood at bay. He drew no weapon, but he rushed at me and threw his long arms around me. He knew that his own game was up, and was only anxious to revenge himself upon me. We tottered together upon the brink of the fall. I have some knowledge, however, of baritsu, or the Japanese system of wrestling, which has more than once been very useful to me. I slipped through his grip, and he with a horrible scream kicked madly for a few seconds, and clawed the air with both his hands. But for all his efforts he could not get his balance, and over he went. With my face over the brink, I saw him fall for a long way. Then he struck a rock, bounded off, and splashed into the water."

I listened with amazement to this explanation, which Holmes delivered between the puffs of his cigarette.

"But the tracks!" I cried. "I saw, with my own eyes, that three went down the path and none returned."

"It came about in this way. The instant that the Professor had disappeared, it struck me what a really extraordinarily lucky chance Fate had placed in my way. I knew that Moriarty was not the only man who had sworn my death. There were at least three others whose desire for vengeance upon me would only be increased by the death of their leader. They were all most dangerous men. One or other would certainly get me. On the other hand, if all the world was convinced that I was dead they would take liberties, these men, they would soon lay themselves open, and sooner or later I could destroy them. Then it would be time for me to announce that I was still in the land of the living. So rapidly does the brain act that I believe I had thought this all out before Professor Moriarty had reached the bottom of the Reichenbach Fall.

"I stood up and examined the rocky wall behind me. In your picturesque account of the matter, which I read with great interest some months later, you assert that the wall was sheer. That was not literally true. A few small footholds presented themselves, and there was some indication of a ledge. The cliff is so high that to climb it all was an obvious impossibility, and it was equally impossible to make my way along the wet path without leaving some tracks. I might, it is true, have reversed my boots, as I have done on similar occasions, but the sight of four sets of tracks in one direction would certainly have suggested a deception. On the whole, then, it was best that I should risk the climb. It was not a pleasant business, Watson. The fall roared beneath me. I am not a fanciful person, but I give you my word that I seemed to hear Moriarty's voice screaming at me out of the abyss. A mistake would have been fatal. More than once, as tufts of grass came out in my hand or my foot slipped in the wet notches of the rock, I thought that I was gone. But I struggled upward, and at last I reached a ledge several feet deep and covered with soft green moss, where I could lie unseen, in the most perfect comfort. There I was stretched, when you, my dear Watson, and all your following were investigating in the most sympathetic and inefficient manner the circumstances of my death." I noticed instantly how my friend had not once mentioned my sister, as though actively attempting to avoid mentioning her. It was then that I noticed his eyes were different. Though the same colour, the shade, much like Luna's, had become lighter and lost the usual mischievous glint. However, for fear of not hearing the rest of the explanation, I did not mention it. Call me selfish but my curiosity was too much to bare and I needed something to which I could relay back to my sister.

"At last, when you had all formed your inevitable and totally erroneous conclusions, you departed for the hotel with…., and I was left alone. I had imagined that I had reached the end of my adventures, but a very unexpected occurrence showed me that there were surprises still in store for me. A huge rock, falling from above, boomed past me, struck the path, and bounded over into the chasm. For an instant I thought that it was an accident, but a moment later, looking up, I saw a man's head against the darkening sky, and another stone struck the very ledge upon which I was stretched, within a foot of my head. Of course, the meaning of this was obvious. Moriarty had not been alone. A confederate—and even that one glance had told me how dangerous a man that confederate was—had kept guard while the Professor had attacked me. From a distance, unseen by me, he had been a witness of his friend's death and of my escape. He had waited, and then making his way round to the top of the cliff, he had endeavoured to succeed where his comrade had failed."

"I did not take long to think about it, Watson. Again I saw that grim face look over the cliff, and I knew that it was the precursor of another stone. I scrambled down on to the path. I don't think I could have done it in cold blood. It was a hundred times more difficult than getting up. But I had no time to think of the danger, for another stone sang past me as I hung by my hands from the edge of the ledge. Halfway down I slipped, but, by the blessing of God, I landed, torn and bleeding, upon the path. I took to my heels, did ten miles over the mountains in the darkness, and a week later I found myself in Florence, with the certainty that no one in the world knew what had become of me."

"I had only one confidant—my brother Mycroft. I owe you many apologies, my dear Watson, but it was all-important that it should be thought I was dead, and it is quite certain that you would not have written so convincing an account of my unhappy end had you not yourself thought that it was true."

"You could not have let me know afterwards?"

"Several times during the last three years I have taken up my pen to write to you, but always I feared lest your affectionate regard for me should tempt you to some indiscretion which would betray my secret. For that reason I turned away from you this evening when you upset my books, for I was in danger at the time, and any show of surprise and emotion upon your part might have drawn attention to my identity and led to the most deplorable and irreparable results."

"But of all the people in which to confide, why Mycroft? I don't mean to sound petulant but you hardly trust the fellow."

"I had to confide in him in order to obtain the money which I needed. The course of events in London did not run so well as I had hoped, for the trial of the Moriarty gang left two of its most dangerous members, my own most vindictive enemies, at liberty. I travelled for two years in Tibet, therefore, and amused myself by visiting Lhassa, and spending some days with the head lama. You may have read of the remarkable explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson, but I am sure that it never occurred to you that you were receiving news of your friend." He was right, I had read about him. Strangely, those accounts were the only things which managed to bring a small smile to my sister's face; it would not last long and the heartbreak would set in as soon as it had left but she was happy, if even by a fraction which meant that I followed Sigerson's explorations as closely as she had, searching for what had drawn her in so fully.

"Luna enjoyed reading them also. Those are the only times I can recall her offering a fraction of a smile in the past three years." I commented. The moment he heard her name, his face seemed to shift to stone, showing no emotion before continuing on with his tale, ignoring what I had said.

"I then passed through Persia, looked in at Mecca, and paid a short but interesting visit to the Khalifa at Khartoum the results of which I have communicated to the Foreign Office. Returning to France, I spent some months in a research into the coal-tar derivatives, which I conducted in a laboratory at Montpellier, in the south of France. Having concluded this to my satisfaction and learning that only one of my enemies was now left in London, I was about to return when my movements were hastened by the news of this very remarkable Park Lane Mystery, which not only appealed to me by its own merits, but which seemed to offer some most peculiar personal opportunities. I came over at once to London."

"Have you returned home yet?" At this, he tensed ever so slightly.

"I did call in my own person at Baker Street, yes, and managed to throw Mrs. Hudson into violent hysterics, and found that Luanna had preserved my rooms and papers exactly as they have always been. So it was, my dear Watson, that at two o'clock to-day I found myself in my old armchair in my own old room, and only wishing that I could have seen my old friend Watson in the other chair which he has so often adorned."

"And was Luna also there?" It was then that a pain seemed to flood his eyes, causing his shoulders to sag forward.

"Indeed… she was."

"And?" I prompted as hope began to rise up inside me at the thought of my sister returning back to the life of the living once more but his reaction was not what I was expecting. Instead of the joyful smile, he gave a sorrowful twitch of his lips.

"She claimed me an illusion, a mere trick of the mind, and left. I tried Watson, I tried to take her in my arms and apologise but she would not have it. She wished me away with the brush of her hand as though I was nothing to her anymore but I had noticed those articles, piled in chronological order on my desk from where she had been reading them. I explained how I had written them, a desperate attempt to let you both know I was well…" he began, rubbing his face wearily as though the mere act of remembering what had happened exhausted him suddenly. "She knew… and that was when she threw me back the ring I had given her before I left."

"I'm sorry but she will come around eventually Holmes. You know that as well as I."

"I'm not so sure Watson. You remember her reaction to when I feigned a deadly illness. This time, I faked my own death and took off travelling for three years while she nursed a broken heart."

"But she loves you Sherlock," I told him, resting my hand upon his shoulder with a small sigh. "It may take her some time to remember that but when she does, she will see sense and you will both be happy again." It was then that, for the first time in our acquaintance, Sherlock Holmes showed weakness. A single tear slipped from his eye and trailed down his cheek before dropping from his chin.

"Do you believe so because I do not deserve nor want false hope. The only thing I want is my Luna back in my arms where she belongs, back by my side so I may never be alone again. The last three years have been a living hell my friend. Until then, I never fully understood the extent to which I need her."

"You could not have missed her that much." I stated falsely, trying to hide the eagerness in my voice. I needed to make sure that his feelings were genuine or I would not allow him to step foot near my baby sister.

I did not want her hurt again.

However, much to my relief, an angry fire filled his eyes at the mere suggestion that his feelings were anything less than true and I was permitted to breathe more freely.

"My heart yearned for her every second Watson, in a way that is incomparable to any other feeling I have ever experienced. It was as if there was a lead weight forever present, pushing down on my chest and gaining force the further I moved away from her but I could not return prematurely for fear of her being hurt. I would rather risk her care for me than a single hair on her head. She can learn to live without me; I cannot live without her."

"You did a fine job for the past three years my fellow."

"No Watson. I have not lived… I have merely existed. My heart began to beat the moment I saw those eyes staring at me. Now, it is believed that work is the best antidote to sorrow, my dear Watson," said he; "and I have a piece of work for us both to-night which, if we can bring it to a successful conclusion, will in itself justify a man's life on this planet." In vain I begged him to tell me more. "You will hear and see enough before morning," he answered. "We have three years of the past to discuss. Let that suffice until half-past nine, when we start upon the notable adventure of the empty house."

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	3. The Empty House: Chapter Three

_**Hello kiddywinkles :3**_

_**Hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it :) **_

* * *

It was indeed like old times when, at that hour, I found myself seated beside him in a hansom, my revolver in my pocket, and the thrill of adventure in my heart. Holmes was cold and stern and silent. As the gleam of the street-lamps flashed upon his austere features, I saw that his brows were drawn down in thought and his thin lips compressed. I knew not what wild beast we were about to hunt down in the dark jungle of criminal London, but I was well assured, from the bearing of this master huntsman, that the adventure was a most grave one—while the sardonic smile which occasionally broke through his ascetic gloom boded little good for the object of our quest.

I had imagined that we were bound for Baker Street to recruit my sister , but Holmes stopped the cab at the corner of Cavendish Square. I observed that as he stepped out he gave a most searching glance to right and left, and at every subsequent street corner he took the utmost pains to assure that he was not followed.

Our route was certainly a singular one.

Holmes's knowledge of the byways of London was extraordinary, and on this occasion he passed rapidly and with an assured step through a network of mews and stables, the very existence of which I had never known. We emerged at last into a small road, lined with old, gloomy houses, which led us into Manchester Street, and so to Blandford Street. Here he turned swiftly down a narrow passage, passed through a wooden gate into a deserted yard, and then opened with a key the back door of a house. We entered together, and he closed it behind us.

The place was pitch dark, but it was evident to me that it was an empty house. Our feet creaked and crackled over the bare planking, and my outstretched hand touched a wall from which the paper was hanging in ribbons. Holmes's cold, thin fingers closed round my wrist and led me forward down a long hall, until I dimly saw the murky fanlight over the door. Here Holmes turned suddenly to the right and we found ourselves in a large, square, empty room, heavily shadowed in the corners, but faintly lit in the centre from the lights of the street beyond. There was no lamp near, and the window was thick with dust, so that we could only just discern each other's figures within. My companion put his hand upon my shoulder and his lips close to my ear.

"Do you know where we are?" he whispered.

"Surely that is Baker Street," I answered, staring through the dim window.

"Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands opposite to our own old quarters."

"But why are we here?"

"Because it commands so excellent a view of that picturesque pile. Might I trouble you, my dear Watson, to draw a little nearer to the window, taking every precaution not to show yourself, and then to look up at our old rooms—the starting-point of so many of your little fairy-tales? We will see if my three years of absence have entirely taken away my power to surprise you."

I crept forward and looked across at the familiar window. As my eyes fell upon it, I gave a gasp and a cry of amazement. The blind was down, and a strong light was burning in the room. The shadow of a man who was seated in a chair within was thrown in hard, black outline upon the luminous screen of the window. There was no mistaking the poise of the head, the squareness of the shoulders, the sharpness of the features. The face was turned half-round, and the effect was that of one of those black silhouettes which our grandparents loved to frame. It was a perfect reproduction of Holmes. So amazed was I that I threw out my hand to make sure that the man himself was standing beside me. He was quivering with silent laughter.

"Well?" said he.

"Good heavens!" I cried. "It is marvellous."

"I trust that age doth not wither nor custom stale my infinite variety," said he, and I recognized in his voice the joy and pride which the artist takes in his own creation. "It really is rather like me, is it not?"

"I should be prepared to swear that it was you."

"The credit of the execution is due to Monsieur Oscar Meunier, of Grenoble, who spent some days in doing the moulding. It is a bust in wax. The rest I arranged myself during my visit to Baker Street this afternoon."

"But why?"

"Because, my dear Watson, I had the strongest possible reason for wishing certain people to think that I was there when I was really elsewhere."

"And you thought the rooms were watched?"

"I KNEW that they were watched."

"By whom?"

"By my old enemies, Watson. By the charming society whose leader lies in the Reichenbach Fall. You must remember that they knew, and only they knew, that I was still alive. Sooner or later they believed that I should come back to my rooms. They watched them continuously and Luna's performance was perfect, a sorrow that cannot be feigned. She, singlehandedly, kept the illusion of my death alive... and this morning they saw me arrive. "

"How do you know?"

"Because I asked him why Baker Street had been under someone's watch for the past three years before forcing him to leave." My sister said. Upon the sound of her voice, I span on my heel to see her materialise from the shadowy corner of the room, her face set in stone as she briefly looked at Holmes who was stood staring at her, his eyes wide in surprise.

"How did you manage to get in?"

"Picked the locks." she murmured, shrugging the question off as she walked to my side. The change in her had been dramatic. It seemed that, upon learning that Sherlock had survived, she was reverting back to her old ways. She still seemed fragile, like holding her too tight would shatter her like the finest crystal, but her eyes were no longer dead. Instead, they danced with fire… fire directed towards my friend.

"I recognized their sentinel. He is a harmless enough fellow, Parker by name, a garroter by trade, and a remarkable performer upon the jew's-harp. I cared nothing for him. But I cared a great deal for the much more formidable person who was behind him, the bosom friend of Moriarty, the man who dropped the rocks over the cliff, the most cunning and dangerous criminal in London. That is the man who is after me tonight Watson, and that is the man who is quite unaware that we are after him."

My friend's plans were gradually revealing themselves. From this convenient retreat, the watchers were being watched and the trackers tracked. That angular shadow up yonder was the bait, and we were the hunters.

In silence we stood together in the darkness and watched the hurrying figures who passed and repassed in front of us. Holmes was silent and motionless; but I could tell that he was keenly alert, and that his eyes were fixed intently upon the stream of passers-by though, every minute or so, they would dart to look at my sister who stood by my other side, her face emotionless as she stared at the silhouette of her love.

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**_Love you all _**


	4. The Empty House: Chapter Four

_**Hope you enjoy reading this as much as I love writing it.**_

_**Nothing makes me happier than reading reviews from people who enjoy these stories and who love Luna as much as I do...**_

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It was a bleak and boisterous night and the wind whistled shrilly down the long street. Many people were moving to and fro, most of them muffled in their coats and cravats. Once or twice it seemed to me that I had seen the same figure before, and I especially noticed two men who appeared to be sheltering themselves from the wind in the doorway of a house some distance up the street. I tried to draw my companion's attention to them; but he gave a little ejaculation of impatience, and continued to stare into the street. More than once he fidgeted with his feet and tapped rapidly with his fingers upon the wall. It was evident to me that he was becoming uneasy, and that his plans were not working out altogether as he had hoped.

At last, as midnight approached and the street gradually cleared, he paced up and down the room in uncontrollable agitation; I could see from the way my sister's fingers twitched subconsciously by her side that the instinct to comfort him was working its way to the surface but before I was about to remark on it, something caught my attention from the corner of my eye. Raising my eyes to the lighted window, I experienced almost as great a surprise as before. I clutched Holmes's arm, and pointed upward.

"The shadow has moved!" I cried.

It was indeed no longer the profile, but the back, which was turned towards us.

Three years had certainly not smoothed the asperities of his temper or his impatience with a less active intelligence than his own.

"Of course it has moved," said he. "Am I such a farcical bungler, Watson, that I should erect an obvious dummy, and expect that some of the sharpest men in Europe would be deceived by it?"

"We have been in this room for the last two hours John. Mrs Hudson has made some changes to the figure… Around eight times, once every quarter of an hour. She has been working it from the front so that her shadow will not be seen." Luna explained before Sherlock had the chance to open his mouth though, when he smiled, she stepped away from me, wrapping her arms around her stomach in a comforting self-embrace.

However, before I could speak to her, Sherlock drew in his breath with a shrill, excited intake.

In the dim light I saw his head thrown forward, his whole attitude rigid with attention. Outside the street was absolutely deserted. Those two men might still be crouching in the doorway, but I could no longer see them. All was still and dark, save only that brilliant yellow screen in front of us with the black figure outlined upon its centre. Again in the utter silence I heard that thin, sibilant note which spoke of intense suppressed excitement.

An instant later, I found myself being pulled back into the same corner where my sister had emerged from earlier that evening, and I felt a warm hand upon my lips before Holmes' warning hand covered that. The fingers which clutched my arms were quivering; never had I known the pair of them more moved and yet the dark street still stretched out lonely and motionless before us.

But suddenly I was aware of that which their keener senses had already distinguished. A low, stealthy sound came to my ears, not from the direction of Baker Street, but from the back of the very house in which we lay concealed.

A door opened and shut.

An instant later steps crept down the passage—steps which were meant to be silent, but which reverberated harshly through the empty house. Within a moment, Holmes had moved from my left to my right, using his body to cover my sister's as they crouched back against the wall, the black of his coat helping to conceal the deep emerald of her cloak as I did the same, my hand closing upon the handle of my revolver.

Peering through the gloom, I saw the vague outline of a man, a shade blacker than the blackness of the open door.

He stood for an instant, and then he crept forward, crouching, menacing, into the room. He was within three yards of us, this sinister figure, and I had braced myself to meet his spring, before I realized that he had no idea of our presence. He passed close beside us, stole over to the window, and very softly and noiselessly raised it for half a foot. As he sank to the level of this opening, the light of the street, no longer dimmed by the dusty glass, fell full upon his face.

The man seemed to be beside himself with excitement. His two eyes shone like stars, and his features were working convulsively. He was an elderly man, with a thin, projecting nose, a high, bald forehead, and a huge grizzled moustache. An opera hat was pushed to the back of his head, and an evening dress shirt-front gleamed out through his open overcoat.

His face was gaunt and swarthy, scored with deep, savage lines. In his hand he carried what appeared to be a stick, but as he laid it down upon the floor it gave a metallic clang. Then from the pocket of his overcoat he drew a bulky object, and he busied himself in some task which ended with a loud, sharp click, as if a spring or bolt had fallen into its place. Still kneeling upon the floor he bent forward and threw all his weight and strength upon some lever, with the result that there came a long, whirling, grinding noise, ending once more in a powerful click. He straightened himself then, and I saw that what he held in his hand was a sort of gun, with a curiously misshapen butt.

He opened it at the breech, put something in, and snapped the breech-lock. Then, crouching down, he rested the end of the barrel upon the ledge of the open window, and I saw his long moustache droop over the stock and his eye gleam as it peered along the sights. I heard a little sigh of satisfaction as he cuddled the butt into his shoulder; and saw that amazing target, the black man on the yellow ground, standing clear at the end of his foresight.

For an instant he was rigid and motionless.

Then his finger tightened on the trigger.

There was a strange, loud whiz and a long, silvery tinkle of broken glass.

At that instant Holmes sprang like a tiger on to the marksman's back, and hurled him flat upon his face. He was up again in a moment, and with convulsive strength he seized Holmes by the throat but my sister was quick to react.

Pulling her cane from the hiding place amongst the sea of shadows which lined the walls, she had the long blade pointed at his stomach within a few seconds though when he refused to release the consultant detective, she slashed shallowly at his hand, forcing him to release Sherlock. The moment he was released, she used the strong oak case to bash the attacker on the back of the head, at the junction where the head and neck connect, causing him to fall to the floor so I could fall upon him, holding him while my comrade blew a shrill call upon a whistle.

There was the clatter of running feet upon the pavement, and two policemen in uniform, with one plain-clothes detective, rushed through the front entrance and into the room.

"That you, Lestrade?" said Holmes.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. I took the job myself. It's good to see you back in London, sir."

"I think you want a little unofficial help. Three undetected murders in one year won't do, Lestrade. But you handled the Molesey Mystery with less than your usual—that's to say, you handled it fairly well."

We had all risen to our feet, our prisoner breathing hard, with a stalwart constable on each side of him. Already a few loiterers had begun to collect in the street. Holmes stepped up to the window, closed it, and dropped the blinds. Lestrade had produced two candles, and the policemen had uncovered their lanterns. I was able at last to have a good look at our prisoner.

It was a tremendously virile and yet sinister face which was turned towards us. With the brow of a philosopher above and the jaw of a sensualist below, the man must have started with great capacities for good or for evil. But one could not look upon his cruel blue eyes, with their drooping, cynical lids, or upon the fierce, aggressive nose and the threatening, deep-lined brow, without reading Nature's plainest danger-signals. He took no heed of any of us, but his eyes were fixed upon Holmes's face with an expression in which hatred and amazement were equally blended. "You fiend!" he kept on muttering. "You clever, clever fiend!"

"Ah, Colonel!" said Holmes, arranging his rumpled collar. "'Journeys end in lovers' meetings,' as the old play says. I don't think I have had the pleasure of seeing you since you favoured me with those attentions as I lay on the ledge above the Reichenbach Fall."

The colonel still stared at my friend like a man in a trance. "You cunning, cunning fiend!" was all that he could say.

"I have not introduced you yet," said Holmes. "This, gentlemen, is Colonel Sebastian Moran, once of Her Majesty's Indian Army, and the best heavy-game shot that our Eastern Empire has ever produced."

"Does your bags of tigers still remain unrivalled Colonel?"

The fierce old man said nothing, choosing to ignore my sister's subtle taunt but still glared at my companion. With his savage eyes and bristling moustache he was wonderfully like a tiger himself.

"I wonder that my very simple stratagem could deceive so old a SHIKARI," said Holmes. "It must be very familiar to you. Have you not tethered a young kid under a tree, lain above it with your rifle, and waited for the bait to bring up your tiger? This empty house is my tree, and you are my tiger. You have possibly had other guns in reserve in case there should be several tigers, or in the unlikely supposition of your own aim failing you. These," he pointed around, "are my other guns. The parallel is exact however my prize rifle never misses a shot" he drawled, placing an arm around my sister's waist though she quickly stepped away, leaving him to wipe a wounded expression from his face.

Colonel Moran sprang forward with a snarl of rage, but the constables dragged him back. The fury upon his face was terrible to look at.

"I confess that you had one small surprise for me," said Holmes. "I did not anticipate that you would yourself make use of this empty house and this convenient front window. I had imagined you as operating from the street, where my friend, Lestrade and his merry men were awaiting you. With that exception, all has gone as I expected."

Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.

"You may or may not have just cause for arresting me," said he, "but at least there can be no reason why I should submit to the gibes of this person. If I am in the hands of the law, let things be done in a legal way."

"Well, that's reasonable enough," said Lestrade. "Nothing further you have to say, Mr. Holmes, before we go?"

Holmes had picked up the powerful air-gun from the floor, and was examining its mechanism.

"An admirable and unique weapon," said he, "noiseless and of tremendous power: I knew Von Herder, the blind German mechanic, who constructed it to the order of the late Professor Moriarty. For years I have been aware of its existence though I have never before had the opportunity of handling it. I commend it very specially to your attention, Lestrade and also the bullets which fit it."

"You can trust us to look after that, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, as the whole party moved towards the door. "Anything further to say?"

"Only to ask what charge you intend to prefer?"

"What charge, sir? Why, of course, the attempted murder of Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Not so, Lestrade. I do not propose to appear in the matter at all. To you, and to you only, belongs the credit of the remarkable arrest which you have effected. Yes, Lestrade, I congratulate you! With your usual happy mixture of cunning and audacity, you have got him."

"Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?"

"The man that the whole force has been seeking in vain—Colonel Sebastian Moran, who shot the Honourable Ronald Adair with an expanding bullet from an air-gun through the open window of the second-floor front of No. 427 Park Lane, upon the thirtieth of last month. That's the charge, Lestrade. And now, Watson, if you can endure the draught from a broken window, I think that half an hour in my study over a cigar may afford you some profitable amusement."

"and my sister Holmes?" At this, he turned to face her though she was slowly shuffling towards the door, following the officers.

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_**Love you all**_


	5. The Empty House: Chapter Five

_**Ladies and gentleman, without further ado, I present to you the final chapter in 'The Adventure of the Empty House'.**_

_**Hope you enjoy it XD**_

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"It's obvious that my company is the last thing she wants."

"And yet, despite the dull aching in my chest and the anger clouding my mind…" she murmured, stopping at the door. "It's the only thing I need." Sighing, she began to move away again but Sherlock was quick to the punch as usual.

Darting forward, he captured her wrist in his hand, spinning her around so their lips could crash together in the heat of their emotional warfare. At first, Luna struggled against his grip, using her spare hand to beat against his chest but he remained firm, winding an arm around her to yank her even closer and like so many times before, she melted into his embrace while he clutched her waist like he was dying and she was the only thing that could keep him alive.

When they eventually pulled away, both had tears rolling down their faces as their breathing steadied itself out.

"I'm sorry that I left you my love. If I knew of another way that guaranteed your safety in the same way, know that I would have taken it in a heartbeat but I wanted you safe."

However, my sister's reaction was something I had not anticipated. Despite the kiss and the tears, she shoved herself away from him as anger consumed her.

"You left me!"

"I know.."

"You left me for three years! You claim to love me then go gallivanting off around the globe without sparing a second thought on what you had left behind!"

"Now that's not fair," he stated firmly, his voice not raising despite her shouting at him. "I left to keep you and your brother safe. How selfish can you be? If you kept me, you put both of your lives in danger. Did you never once wonder how much that would damage me? Did my reaction to you both being shot not prove how deeply my affection runs for the pair of you?"

"And yet you hightail it away and leave us licking our wounds like a pair of wounded animals!" she snapped.

"I left messages so you knew I was well. Is it my fault if you were too blind to see them?"

Now, I do not condone violence in any way however I could not force myself to be annoyed at my sister when she pulled her hand back to swipe it sharply against his cheek, causing him to reel back in shock.

"_The wind howled like a woman scorn before the clouds above me opened, allowing her to weep from loss. I would have given anything to offer her comfort, to calm her to the point of sunshine but it was out of my power; nothing hurt me more than watching it from a distance, powerless to stop the storm which I knew I must brave sometime. _In every piece written by the norwegian explorer, there was a passage like that. That one was written about a storm he had encountered in Lhassa… I found every single one of your 'messages'." She hissed before turning around and storming out of the house, leaving both me and her lover frozen in shock.

"Do you know what it is like to crave something you cannot have? Or, for a better turn of phrase Watson, something you have lost but might never be able to reclaim? It appears that I have lost the love of your sister."

"I am sure she will see sense…" I tried though not fully believing what I was saying. I had not expected my sister to react in such a way towards the man she was betrothed too but I knew that I wouldn't have been able to change her mind on it. She would have to come to the conclusion herself or she would not have accepted it.

"Come, we have much to discuss,"

Our old chambers had been left unchanged through the supervision of Mycroft Holmes and the immediate care of my sister. As I entered I saw, it is true, an unwonted tidiness, but the old landmarks were all in their place, left remaining by Luna.

There were the chemical corner and the acid-stained, deal-topped table. There upon a shelf was the row of formidable scrap-books and books of reference which many of our fellow-citizens would have been so glad to burn. The diagrams, the violin-case, and the pipe-rack—even the Persian slipper which contained the tobacco—all met my eyes as I glanced round me. It was as though I was looking through a new pair of eyes, like I had not seen it for years, despite my being there that morning.

There were two occupants of the room—one, Mrs. Hudson, who beamed upon us both as we entered—the other, the strange dummy which had played so important a part in the evening's adventures.

It was a wax-coloured model of my friend, so admirably done that it was a perfect facsimile. It stood on a small pedestal table with an old dressing-gown of Holmes's so draped round it that the illusion from the street was absolutely perfect.

"I hope you observed all precautions, Mrs. Hudson?" said Holmes, his eyes trailing after my sister as she stormed into her room, making certain to slam the door loudly behind her.

"I went to it on my knees, sir, just as you told me."

"Excellent. You carried the thing out very well. Did you observe where the bullet went?"

"Yes, sir. I'm afraid it has spoilt your beautiful bust, for it passed right through the head and flattened itself on the wall. I picked it up from the carpet. Here it is!"

Holmes held it out to me. "A soft revolver bullet, as you perceive, Watson. There's genius in that, for who would expect to find such a thing fired from an airgun? All right, Mrs. Hudson. I am much obliged for your assistance. And now, Watson, let me see you in your old seat once more, for there are several points which I should like to discuss with you."

He had thrown off the seedy frock coat, and now he was the Holmes of old in the mouse-coloured dressing-gown which he took from his effigy.

"The old SHIKARI'S nerves have not lost their steadiness, nor his eyes their keenness," said he, with a laugh, as he inspected the shattered forehead of his bust.

"Plumb in the middle of the back of the head and smack through the brain. He was the best shot in India, and I expect that there are few better in London. Have you heard the name?"

"No, I have not."

"Well, well, such is fame! But, then, if I remember right, you had not heard the name of Professor James Moriarty, who had one of the great brains of the century. Just give me down my index of biographies from the shelf."

He turned over the pages lazily, leaning back in his chair and blowing great clouds from his cigar.

"My collection of M's is a fine one," said he. "Moriarty himself is enough to make any letter illustrious"

"Don't forget Morgan the poisoner…" My sister added sarcastically as she walked out of her room, clutching her battered old suitcase in one hand and her walking cane in the other.

"and Merridew of abominable memory," he continued, his eyes glued to the case which she placed onto the coffee table so she could tighten the leather straps which held it clasped together.

"Mathews who knocked out your left canine in the waiting room at Charing Cross." She continued, struggling for a second before putting it into place.

"And finally, here is our friend of tonight."

He handed over the book, and I read:

MORAN, SEBASTIAN, COLONEL. Unemployed. Formerly 1st Bangalore Pioneers. Born London, 1840. Son of Sir Augustus Moran, C. B., once British Minister to Persia. Educated Eton and Oxford. Served in Jowaki Campaign, Afghan Campaign, Charasiab (despatches), Sherpur, and Cabul. Author of HEAVY GAME OF THE WESTERN HIMALAYAS (1881); THREE MONTHS IN THE JUNGLE (1884). Address: Conduit Street. Clubs: The Anglo-Indian, the Tankerville, the Bagatelle Card Club.

On the margin was written, in Holmes's precise hand:

The second most dangerous man in London.

"This is astonishing," said I, as I handed back the volume. "The man's career is that of an honourable soldier."

"It is true," Holmes answered. "Up to a certain point he did well. He was always a man of iron nerve, and the story is still told in India how he crawled down a drain after a wounded man-eating tiger. There are some trees, Watson, which grow to a certain height, and then suddenly develop some unsightly eccentricity. You will see it often in humans. I have a theory that the individual represents in his development the whole procession of his ancestors, and that such a sudden turn to good or evil stands for some strong influence which came into the line of his pedigree. The person becomes, as it were, the epitome of the history of his own family."

"It is surely rather fanciful."

"Well, I don't insist upon it. Whatever the cause, Colonel Moran began to go wrong. Without any open scandal, he still made India too hot to hold him. He retired, came to London, and again acquired an evil name. It was at this time that he was sought out by Professor Moriarty, to whom for a time he was chief of the staff. Moriarty supplied him liberally with money, and used him only in one or two very high-class jobs, which no ordinary criminal could have undertaken. You may have some recollection of the death of Mrs. Stewart, of Lauder, in 1887. Not? Well, I am sure Moran was at the bottom of it, but nothing could be proved."

"He managed to conceal himself so cleverly that, even when the Moriarty gang was broken up three years ago, we could find no way to incriminate him." Luna explained calmly as all traces of her earlier anger melted away.

"You remember at that date, when I called upon you in your rooms, how I put up the shutters for fear of air-guns? No doubt you thought me fanciful. I knew exactly what I was doing, for I knew of the existence of this remarkable gun, and I knew also that one of the best shots in the world would be behind it. When we were in Switzerland he followed us with Moriarty, and it was undoubtedly he who gave me that evil five minutes on the Reichenbach ledge." He remarked, jumping up to catch hold of her hand as she moved towards the door of the flat.

"You may think that I read the papers with some attention during my sojourn in France, on the look-out for any chance of laying him by the heels. So long as he was free in London, my life would really not have been worth living; he posed a danger to you both. Night and day the shadow would have been over me, and sooner or later his chance must have come. What could I do? I could not shoot him at sight, or I should myself be in the dock. There was no use appealing to a magistrate. They cannot interfere on the strength of what would appear to them to be a wild suspicion."

"Thank you for explaining that," she murmured, venom thickly coating her words before she pulled herself free from his hold.

"Where are you going lo-"

"Don't you dare call me that!" My sister snapped, glaring at her lover before composing herself then looking at me. "I will see you soon John, preferably once I have situated myself comfortably elsewhere."

"You are not leaving." Sherlock stated confidently, finding words while I struggled immensely to string a sentence together.

She was going to leave?

"You have no say whatsoever Holmes." The moment his last name left her lips, he winced as if suddenly realising how his absence had changed her.

"I am your fiancé."

"No... You were my fiancé. You forfeited that right the moment you faked your own death Holmes. I do not want anything to do with you anymore." To this day, I still don't know what affected my best friend so much. I don't know if it was the cold indifference in her voice or the harshness which empathised every word but something caused a tear to roll down his cheek and land on the floor.

"And where will you go?"

"I shall go back home."

"You are home love. Baker street is your home." He tried desperately, reaching out to caress her cheek which she allowed for a second before pulling back.

"You are right," she admitted with a small sigh, running a weary hand through her hair which caused his lips to twitch upwards though it only lasted a few seconds. "then I shall go back to my father."

"I will not have it!" I told her, making sure my distain to have her living back with that brute clear. I would not allow her to leave and be beaten black and blue.

"I have no choice John. Do you wish me to live here, with him, and watch me die before your eyes?"

"You have been dying the last three years. Today Luna, I have watched you take a breath of fresh air! You are living again because he has come back. Please, do not leave us."

"I'm sorry John but I have to."

And just like that, my sister was gone.

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_**Dun Dun Dun… Wasn't expecting that, were you? **_

_**What will happen? Will they get back together? **_

_**Tune in next week XD **_

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_**Love you all **_


	6. Absence Effects The Mind Greatly

_**Howdy all!**_

_**I'm sorry for the delay however work is hell and my manager doesn't understand how important this is so I can't even sneak in a few cheeky lines between assignments haha **_

_**I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.**_

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The period of time where my sister was absent from Baker Street effected Holmes badly.

Clients came and went with the most interesting cases that London could offer without the silent aid of Moriarty though he refused to spend more than a few moments on them. He would kindly listen to them, offer the words 'perhaps the police would be able to provide more help than I am capable of this moment' before calling for Mrs Hudson to escort them out of the flat.

It was safe to say that I had witnessed a similar transformation before though he deteriorated far more rapidly than my sister had.

After a week, he had turned down a grand total of fifteen cases, had yet to force down a single bite of the meals provided for him and had refused to leave the comfort of his arm chair; the only thing which kept him going was the fine Persian tobacco he had brought back with him.

It was once three weeks had passed that I had confronted him about his behaviour.

"How do you expect her to come back if you are slowly killing yourself?" I snapped in annoyance one morning after walking in on him about to fill a syringe of his 'miracle' solution. Usually, I would not have caused such a fuss over his abuse but it was getting too much. It was dangerous when combined with the state that he had let his body fall in to and, in a moment of insanity, I ripped the tourniquet from his arm, throwing it into the fireplace.

"I fear she will never return to me Watson. I have truly destroyed that in which I held most dear."

"And your mind Holmes?! You are dehydrated, starving yourself and smoking more than I have ever witnessed. You will end up killing your mind."

"What use is it!?" He cried, throwing the syringe across the room causing it to smash against the wall. "Why should I keep a thing which has brought me nothing but sorrow? If I had not been rational, I would have spoken to her and told her my plans! I would have convinced her to come with me opposed to leaving her in this very room! Her sadness, Watson, is infecting me… I can feel it seeping into my skin and travelling through my blood! Allow me release from this depression John… I want to live again!"

"Drugs will not bring life Holmes. You need to make amends with my sister."

"Then that is what I shall do. Come!" he yelled, jumping to his feet with a burst of tangible energy though it faded quickly as he swayed precariously, gripping onto the back of his chair for support. "Though first, I think a good meal will benefit me greatly."

"A wash and a shave would also not harm your cause old chap." I added, secretly happy that he had seen sense.

That evening found a cleanly shaven Sherlock and I standing outside of a house that I had not visited in over thirty years, mostly due to the rather volatile nature of my father. Where I was a little reluctant to find myself face to face with a monster of my past, my friend had no such trouble.

Within a second, he was knocking on the chipped front door, his shoulders tense in anticipation.

We waited there for several minutes.

No one answered the door.

He knocked again; we were still ignored.

Suddenly, we heard a muffled smash from the inside of the small house shortly followed by a loud shriek.

Without a moment's hesitation, Sherlock kicked the door open to reveal my sister on the cold wooden floor with my father towering over her, his hand raised to strike and a whiskey bottle clutching tightly in the other.

However, the noise caused the pair of us to become the recipients of his attentions.

Now, allow me to tell you this dear reader, despite the fact that my father was approaching seventy-five, his violent temperament had not faded with age. Standing there, a mere foot away from me, was the man I always remembered.

"Ah, John…" he slurred, a smirk creeping onto his withered face as he approached me, his arms open as he seemingly forgot about my sister who pulled herself to her feet. I could see the bruise beginning to develop on her cheek, as well as the many cuts and bruises which littered her bare arms.

"Do not even begin with that father!" I snapped, meeting his drunken gaze with a glare of my own as I moved to stand between him and my sister. It was as if Sherlock was frozen until that moment however when he had thawed, he scurried over to embrace my sister tightly as she sobbed into his shoulder, clutching him just as tightly as he held her.

"C'mon John… Come and hug your ol' dad.." At this, I shoved him away, causing him to stumble which did not help his already building fury. Growling, he launched forward to hold me by the throat. Despite my age and experience in the war, I could not muster the strength to force him away from me though luckily, I did not have to.

The moment my back connected to the wall, I watched my sister push herself away from the detective who was quick to realise the situation I found myself.

"Sir, I insist you release Watson this very second or I will not be held accountable as to the hand which fate deals you."

"You 'nd what army boy?"

"Me father.." My sister started, causing my father to laugh but loosen his hold on me, allowing me to greedily lap up oxygen.

"You? You couldn't d'fend 'urself if 'ur life depend'd on it girl…"

"The beauty, Mr Watson, is that she does not need to. Your daughter has me." Sherlock stated confidently, standing toe to toe with my father who released me, allowing me to move over to my sister who watched just as closely as I did.

"'nd who 're you? One o' the 'hore's clients?"

"Come on Luna, we are leaving." Holmes said firmly, opening the door so I could escort my sister out on to the street though the door closed before the detective could exit.

"No! Sherlock!," Luna shouted, trying to get back to the house as I dragged her away, towards the carriage we had procured for the evening. "John, we cannot leave him there… Please."

"He can take care of himself love," I cooed, stroking her hair as we sat, waiting for him to return.

"I am scared John," she shared after we sat there for a few minutes in silence.

"Of what?"

"I am scared he cannot forgive me for leaving him; for succumbing to my sadness and leaving his company in favour of our father's."

"Oh Luna, he has been irrational in your absence, suicidal almost but I very much doubt he will hold such a thing against you. He understands the mood which possessed you, now more than before."

"I love him," she whispered, just as silence was about to consume us again though when I glanced in her direction, her eyes were glued to the small window of our childhood home. Through the glass pane, two silhouettes could be seen and it was not difficult to make our which shadow belonged to her detective. Despite the distance and the walls which separated us from them, we could still make out their faint yells at each other. "I know I have uttered those words countless times before today John but now, sitting here with you while he faces the monster from my nightmares, I realise that I truly mean them from the bottom of my heart. It is a notion which both terrifies and elates me."

"You did not mean it before?" I inquired, shocked at her admission.

"Of course I did though now I realise just how much… I know it is just as difficult to understand as it is to articulate but I truly love him and swear I will not leave his side again." Admittedly, that was a thought that scared me; I know she meant it at the moment in time and with the constant dangers lurking in the shadows of Holmes' life, I believe death could be the thing to separate them.

However, before I could voice my fears, Sherlock walked through the door with a smile on his face and my sister's suitcase clutched in his left hand. The closer he got, I noticed that his right hand was no longer in his sleeve but instead was cradled across his chest.

"I do believe he will not be bothering us anymore." He stated confidently, slipping in beside my sister, wincing as he did so which caused my sister to react instantly.

"Oh Sherlock," she breathed, embracing him tightly around his waist, tears rolling down her bruised cheeks. "I am so sorry for leaving. I should have never left you. Please, forgive me."

"It is me who should be pleading your forgiveness love. I am sorry for leaving you. It is only until you left that I realised the damage that I caused…"

"Let's not speak of it again, shall we Sherlock?"

"No Luna," he stated firmly, lifting his hand to cup her cheek. "We shall. I was stupid and stubborn for leaving, even if it was in your better interest. I realised, the day I watched you walk away from the falls, just how much I yearn for your presence and how much of a comfort you are. Your smile is enough to chase away my narcotic induced cravings. The idea of leaving you alone forces my mind to reconsider every dangerous situation my occupation forced me into and I wish, with all my heart, that you will re-accept the ring which tells the world you are mine."

"S-Sherlock, what are you saying?"

"I am asking you to be my wife again."

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_**Sooooo, whatcha think?**_

_**Feel free to leave me a review in the little white box **_

_**Love you all xxx**_


	7. The Norwood Builder: Chapter One

_**Hey guys...**_

_**I'm so sorry for taking a long while to post something new but work has had me running around like a headless chicken... As the 'enrolment' part of the academic year begins, the College is buzzing with anticipation which triples my work load. **_

_**I will, however, try to start updating regular...**_

_**Although, I would like to inform all of you of something very important that's happened in my life over the time I've been rather silent... I got engaged! I've managed to find the Sherlock to my Luna! :3**_

_**I know you're probably wondering why I'm sharing this with you all but I consider you all a part of my family; without you, I don't know what I'd do. You all support me in your own little ways and I'm extremely grateful. **_

_**Now that the sappy stuffs outta the way... Let's get on with 'The Norwood Builder'...**_

_**Hope you enjoy :3**_

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"From the point of view of the criminal expert," said Mr. Sherlock Holmes, "London has become a singularly uninteresting city since the death of the late lamented Professor Moriarty."

"I highly doubt that you would find many decent citizens to agree with you," My sister answered, smiling up at the detective lovingly from her place by his side. In the few months since he returned, I had noticed a lot of difference in my baby sister; she had begun to put weight back on, gaining to be a healthy size with a nice glow to her skin in place of the sickly pale colour she once was.

"Well, well, I must not be selfish," said he, with a smile, as he pushed back his chair from the breakfast-table after caressing her cheek gently.

"Exactly love. The community has certainly gained and no one had lost, save the poor out of work detective whose occupation is dwindling into nothing!" She cried dramatically, slipping into his lap then wrapping her arms around his neck while his went around her waist.

I had noticed that, since my sister had returned from my father's, they seemed to touch each other a lot though not in any other way you can interrupt that statement than this; they would constantly hold each other or touch in some way or another, as if to solidify the other's existence.

I found it rather endearing.

"With that man in the field, one's morning paper presented infinite possibilities. Often it was only the smallest trace, Watson, the faintest indication, and yet it was enough to tell me that the great malignant brain was there, as the gentlest tremors of the edges of the web remind one of the foul spider which lurks in the centre. Petty thefts, wanton assaults, purposeless outrage—to the man who held the clue all could be worked into one connected whole. To the scientific student of the higher criminal world, no capital in Europe offered the advantages which London then possessed. But now—" He shrugged his shoulders in humorous deprecation of the state of things which he had himself done so much to produce before resting his chin on her shoulder, sighing softly.

At the time of which I speak, Holmes had been back for some months, and I at his request had sold my practice and returned to share the old quarters in Baker Street with my sister. A young doctor, named Verner, had purchased my small Kensington practice, and given with astonishingly little demur the highest price that I ventured to ask—an incident which only explained itself some years later, when I found that Verner was a distant relation of Holmes, and that it was my friend who had really found the money.

Our months of partnership had not been so uneventful as he had stated, for I find, on looking over my notes, that this period includes the case of the papers of ex-President Murillo, and also the shocking affair of the Dutch steamship FRIESLAND, which so nearly cost us both our lives. His cold and proud nature was always averse, however, from anything in the shape of public applause, and he bound me in the most stringent terms to say no further word of himself, his methods, or his successes—a prohibition which, as I have explained, has only now been removed.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes was leaning back in his chair after his whimsical protest, my sister perched comfortably in his lap once more, and was unfolding his morning paper in a leisurely fashion, when our attention was arrested by a tremendous ring at the bell, followed immediately by a hollow drumming sound, as if someone were beating on the outer door with his fist. As it opened there came a tumultuous rush into the hall, rapid feet clattered up the stair, and an instant later a wild-eyed and frantic young man, pale, disheveled, and palpitating, burst into the room. He looked from the happy couple to me, and under our gazes of inquiry he became conscious that some apology was needed for his unceremonious entry.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," he cried. "You mustn't blame me. I am nearly mad. Mr. Holmes, I am the unhappy John Hector McFarlane."

He made the announcement as if the name alone would explain both his visit and its manner, but I could see, by my companion's unresponsive face, that it meant no more to him than to me.

"Have a cigarette, Mr McFarlane," Luna said, pushing Sherlock's case across with the tip of her shoe before rising from her seat, much to the disappointment of her fiancee who reached for her almost instantly, frowning as she ignored him in favour of helping another man. From where I was seated, I could see his eyes narrow slightly at the man he had instantly labelled a competitor for her affections which brought a chuckle up my throat though I was quick to catch it. "I'm sure that, with your symptoms, my brother here would be able to prescribe a sedative." she continued, smiling softly as she laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, forcing the detective out of his seat.

" The weather has been so very warm these last few days. Now, if you feel a little more composed, I should be glad if you would sit down in that chair, and tell us very slowly and quietly who you are, and what it is that you want. You mentioned your name, as if me and my _fiancee_ should recognize it, but I assure you that, beyond the obvious facts that you are a bachelor, a solicitor, a Freemason, and an asthmatic, I know nothing whatever about you." As he spoke, a possessive arm reached around Luna's waist, yanking her back against his chest as he stared at the other man, falling back in their seat. That, paired with the emphasis on her title, clearly indicated that Sherlock's 'opponent' had no chance in the race so there was no point in attempting to participate.

Familiar as I was with my friend's methods, it was not difficult for me to follow his deductions, and to observe the untidiness of attire, the sheaf of legal papers, the watch-charm, and the breathing which had prompted them.

Our client, however, stared in amazement

.

"Yes, I am all that, Mr. Holmes; and, in addition, I am the most unfortunate man at this moment in London. For heaven's sake, don't abandon me, Mr. Holmes! If they come to arrest me before I have finished my story, make them give me time, so that I may tell you the whole truth. I could go to jail happy if I knew that you were working for me outside." As this was explained, Luna picked up the paper again, laid it on her lap and began reading.

"Arrest you!" said Holmes. "This is really most grati—most interesting. On what charge do you expect to be arrested?"

"Upon the charge of murdering Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower Norwood."

My companion's expressive face showed a sympathy which was not, I am afraid, entirely unmixed with satisfaction.

"Dear me," said he, "it was only this moment at breakfast that I was saying to my friend, Dr. Watson, that sensational cases had disappeared out of our papers."

Our visitor stretched forward a quivering hand, ready to pick the DAILY TELEGRAPH up from my sister's lap; when Sherlock caught sight of this, he quickly pressed a kiss to her temple, scooped the paper from her lap then all but tossed it to our visitor.

"If you had looked at it, sir, you would have seen at a glance what the errand is on which I have come to you this morning. I feel as if my name and my misfortune must be in every man's mouth." He turned it over to expose the central page. "Here it is, and with your permission I will read it to you."

"Save your breath, Mr McFarlane." The detective said sharply, his tone rather icy before glancing down to my sister, his eyes and tone melting instantly. "Would you mind, my love? You have an amazing gift at trimming away the unneeded details used to pad out the story for the paper."

"I haven't-"

"I saw the headline love." He murmured, nuzzling the side of her neck with his nose in a rather open display of affection. Our visitor's eyes widened while mine rolled. My friend was always rather possessive.

"The headline was: 'Mysterious Affair at Lower Norwood. Disappearance of a Well Known Builder. Suspicion of Murder and Arson. A Clue to the Criminal.' I'm going to assume that is the clue the police are following which will infallibly lead to Mr McFarlane here."

"I have been followed from London Bridge Station, and I am sure that they are only waiting for the warrant to arrest me. It will break my mother's heart—it will break her heart!" He wrung his hands in an agony of apprehension, and swayed backward and forward in his chair.

I looked with interest upon this man, who was accused of being the perpetrator of a crime of violence. He was flaxen-haired and handsome, in a washed-out negative fashion, with frightened blue eyes, and a clean-shaven face, with a weak, sensitive mouth. His age may have been about twenty-seven, his dress and bearing that of a gentleman. From the pocket of his light summer overcoat protruded the bundle of indorsed papers which proclaimed his profession.

"We must use what time we have," said Holmes. "Sir, would you be kind enough to hand the paper back to my fiancee so she can read the paragraph in question? As much as I commend her memory, I'm sure there are limits to how much detail she can recite."

"Late last night, or early this morning, an incident occurred at Lower Norwood which points, it is feared, to a serious crime. Mr. Jonas Oldacre is a well known resident of that suburb, where he has carried on his business as a builder for many years. Mr. Oldacre is a bachelor, fifty-two years of age, and lives in Deep Dene House, at the Sydenham end of the road of that name. He has had the reputation of being a man of eccentric habits, secretive and retiring. For some years he has practically withdrawn from the business, in which he is said to have massed considerable wealth. A small timber-yard still exists, however, at the back of the house, and last night, about twelve o'clock, an alarm was given that one of the stacks was on fire. The engines were soon upon the spot, but the dry wood burned with great fury, and it was impossible to arrest the conflagration until the stack had been entirely consumed."

"Why it sounds like nothing more extraordinary than an accident." I told her, curious as to how it linked with the case.

"Well up until this point, the incident bore every appearance of an ordinary accident, but fresh indications seem to point to serious crime. Surprise was expressed at the absence of the master of the establishment from the scene of the fire, and an inquiry followed, which showed that he had disappeared from the house."

"And how certain can they be of this?" Sherlock asked, his eyes closed as he rested his chin on her shoulder, obviously trusting her enough to not read as she spoke; as stupid as it sounds, that is a habit, despite us being friends for many years, that he still could not break with me. If I were reading an article, he would either read as I did or would re-read it after, as though afraid that I would purposely hide facts from him.

" Well an examination of his room revealed that the bed had not been slept in, that a safe which stood in it was open, that a number of important papers were scattered about the room, and finally, that there were signs of a murderous struggle, slight traces of blood being found within the room, and an oaken walking-stick, which also showed stains of blood upon the handle. It is known that Mr. Jonas Oldacre had received a late visitor in his bedroom upon that night, and the stick found has been identified as the property of this person, who is a young London solicitor named John Hector McFarlane, junior partner of Graham and McFarlane, of 426 Gresham Buildings, E. C. The police believe that they have evidence in their possession which supplies a very convincing motive for the crime, and altogether it cannot be doubted that sensational developments will follow."

"Sensational indeed." remarked our visitor whose nerves seemed to have calmed considerably during my sister's recount of the incident.

"LATER.—It is rumoured as we go to press that Mr. John Hector McFarlane has actually been arrested on the charge of the murder of Mr. Jonas Oldacre. It is at least certain that a warrant has been issued. There have been further and sinister developments in the investigation at Norwood. Besides the signs of a struggle in the room of the unfortunate builder it is now known that the French windows of his bedroom (which is on the ground floor) were found to be open, that there were marks as if some bulky object had been dragged across to the wood-pile, and, finally, it is asserted that charred remains have been found among the charcoal ashes of the fire. The police theory is that a most sensational crime has been committed, that the victim was clubbed to death in his own bedroom, his papers rifled, and his dead body dragged across to the wood-stack, which was then ignited so as to hide all traces of the crime. The conduct of the criminal investigation has been left in the experienced hands of Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, who is following up the clues with his accustomed energy and sagacity."

Sherlock Holmes listened to the end of this remarkable account, his eyes closed and his fingers playing with my sister's absentmindedly. "The case has certainly some points of interest," said he, in his languid fashion. "May I ask, in the first place, Mr. McFarlane, how it is that you are still at liberty, since there appears to be enough evidence to justify your arrest?"

"I live at Torrington Lodge, Blackheath, with my parents, Mr. Holmes, but last night, having to do business very late with Mr. Jonas Oldacre, I stayed at an hotel in Norwood, and came to my business from there. I knew nothing of this affair until I was in the train, when I read what you have just heard. I at once saw the horrible danger of my position, and I hurried to put the case into your hands. I have no doubt that I should have been arrested either at my city office or at my home. A man followed me from London Bridge Station, and I have no doubt—Great heaven! what is that?"

It was a clang of the bell, followed instantly by heavy steps upon the stair. A moment later, our old friend Lestrade appeared in the doorway. Over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of one or two uniformed policemen outside.

"Mr. John Hector McFarlane?" said Lestrade.

Our unfortunate client rose with a ghastly face.

"I arrest you for the wilful murder of Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower Norwood."

McFarlane turned to us with a gesture of despair, and sank into his chair once more like one who is crushed.

"One moment, Lestrade," My sister said. "Surely, another half an hour or less will make no difference to you; the gentleman was about to give us an account of this very interesting affair which might aid us in clearing it up."

"I think there will be no difficulty in clearing it up," said Lestrade, grimly.

"None the less, with your permission Inspector, I should be much interested to hear his account." Sherlock cut in.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, it is difficult for me to refuse you anything, for you have been of use to the force once or twice in the past, and we owe you a good turn at Scotland Yard," said Lestrade. "At the same time I must remain with my prisoner, and I am bound to warn him that anything he may say will appear in evidence against him."

"I wish nothing better," said our client. "All I ask is that you should hear and recognize the absolute truth."

Lestrade looked at his watch. "I'll give you half an hour," said he.

"I must explain first," said McFarlane, "that I knew nothing of Mr. Jonas Oldacre. His name was familiar to me, for many years ago my parents were acquainted with him, but they drifted apart. I was very much surprised therefore, when yesterday, about three o'clock in the afternoon, he walked into my office in the city. But I was still more astonished when he told me the object of his visit. He had in his hand several sheets of a notebook, covered with scribbled writing—here they are—and he laid them on my table.

"'Here is my will,' said he. 'I want you, Mr. McFarlane, to cast it into proper legal shape. I will sit here while you do so.'

"I set myself to copy it, and you can imagine my astonishment when I found that, with some reservations, he had left all his property to me. He was a strange little ferret-like man, with white eyelashes, and when I looked up at him I found his keen gray eyes fixed upon me with an amused expression. I could hardly believe my own as I read the terms of the will; but he explained that he was a bachelor with hardly any living relation, that he had known my parents in his youth, and that he had always heard of me as a very deserving young man, and was assured that his money would be in worthy hands. Of course, I could only stammer out my thanks. The will was duly finished, signed, and witnessed by my clerk. This is it on the blue paper, and these slips, as I have explained, are the rough draft. Mr. Jonas Oldacre then informed me that there were a number of documents—building leases, title-deeds, mortgages, scrip, and so forth—which it was necessary that I should see and understand. He said that his mind would not be easy until the whole thing was settled, and he begged me to come out to his house at Norwood that night, bringing the will with me, and to arrange matters. 'Remember, my boy, not one word to your parents about the affair until everything is settled. We will keep it as a little surprise for them.' He was very insistent upon this point, and made me promise it faithfully.

"You can imagine, Mr. Holmes, that I was not in a humour to refuse him anything that he might ask. He was my benefactor, and all my desire was to carry out his wishes in every particular. I sent a telegram home, therefore, to say that I had important business on hand, and that it was impossible for me to say how late I might be. Mr. Oldacre had told me that he would like me to have supper with him at nine, as he might not be home before that hour. I had some difficulty in finding his house, however, and it was nearly half-past before I reached it. I found him—"

"One moment!" said Holmes. My sister, seeming to follow his train of thought, continued.

"Who opened the door?"

"A middle-aged woman, who was, I suppose, his housekeeper."

"And it was she, I presume, who mentioned your name?"

"Exactly," said McFarlane.

"Pray proceed."

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_**Hope you liked it :)**_


	8. The Norwood Builder: Chapter Two

McFarlane wiped his damp brow, and then continued his narrative:

"I was shown by this woman into a sitting-room, where a frugal supper was laid out. Afterwards, Mr. Jonas Oldacre led me into his bedroom, in which there stood a heavy safe. This he opened and took out a mass of documents, which we went over together. It was between eleven and twelve when we finished. He remarked that we must not disturb the housekeeper. He showed me out through his own French window, which had been open all this time."

"Was the blind down?" asked Luna.

"I will not be sure, but I believe that it was only half down. Yes, I remember how he pulled it up in order to swing open the window. I could not find my stick, and he said, 'Never mind, my boy, I shall see a good deal of you now, I hope, and I will keep your stick until you come back to claim it.' I left him there, the safe open, and the papers made up in packets upon the table. It was so late that I could not get back to Blackheath, so I spent the night at the Anerley Arms, and I knew nothing more until I read of this horrible affair in the morning."

"Anything more that you would like to ask, ?" said Lestrade, whose eyebrows had gone up once or twice during this remarkable explanation.

"You know what, Detective Inspector Lestrade, I cannot think of a single question." she answered simply.

"And you, Holmes?"

"Not until I have been to Blackheath."

"You mean to Norwood," said Lestrade.

"Oh, yes, no doubt that is what I must have meant," said Holmes, with his enigmatical smile. Lestrade had learned by more experiences than he would care to acknowledge that that brain could cut through that which was impenetrable to him. I saw him look curiously at my companion.

"I think I should like to have a word with you presently, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said he. "Now, Mr. McFarlane, two of my constables are at the door, and there is a four-wheeler waiting." The wretched young man arose, and with a last beseeching glance at us walked from the room. The officers conducted him to the cab, but Lestrade remained.

My sister had picked up the pages which formed the rough draft of the will -encouraged by some silent instruction from Holmes no doubt - and was reading through them while Sherlock looked at them over shoulder with the keenest interest upon his face.

"There are some points about that document, Lestrade, are there not?" said he, turning his head to face the detective.

The official looked at them with a puzzled expression.

"I can read the first few lines and these in the middle of the second page, and one or two at the end. Those are as clear as print," said he, "but the writing in between is very bad, and there are three places where I cannot read it at all."

"What do you make of that?" said Holmes.

"Well, what do YOU make of it?"

"Better yet," Sherlock began, slipping his hands down to squeeze Luna's waist. "What do you make of it, love?"

Holmes had developed that habit since his return; during his 'death', my sister rarely 'exercised' her deductive reasoning and observations so he had taken it upon himself to refocus them as he was the cause of their lack state.

"That it was probably written on a train. His handwriting is legible every time the train stopped at a station but unreadable as it moved and disgraceful as they passed over points."

Smiling, the consultant detective pressed a kiss to the side of her head.

"A scientific expert would pronounce at once that this was drawn up on a suburban line, since nowhere save in the immediate vicinity of a great city could there be so quick a succession of points."

"Granting that his whole journey was occupied in drawing up the will, then the train was an express, only stopping once between Norwood and London Bridge."

Lestrade began to laugh.

"The pair of you are too much for me when you begin with your theories, Mr and Mrs Holmes," said he. "How does this bear on the case?"

"Well, it corroborates the young man's story to the extent that the will was drawn up by Jonas Oldacre in his journey yesterday."

"It's curious, is it not Inspector?" Luna asked, moving from Sherlock's lap - much to his obvious annoyance - to stand in front of the window, looking down on the street. "That a man should draw up so important a document in such a haphazard fashion. It suggests that he did not believe it was going to be much of practical importance. If, for instance, a man drew up a will which he did not intend ever to be effective, he might not take as much care and do it so."

"Well, he drew up his own death warrant at the same time," said Lestrade.

"Oh, you think so?" Holmes asked, his lips twitching upwards at the corners before moving behind my sister, spinning her playfully before embracing her tightly from behind.

"Don't you?"

"Well, it is quite possible, but the case is not clear to me yet."

"Not clear? Well, if that isn't clear, what COULD be clear? Here is a young man who learns suddenly that, if a certain older man dies, he will succeed to a fortune. What does he do? He says nothing to anyone, but he arranges that he shall go out on some pretext to see his client that night."

"He then waits until the only other person in the house is all safe and sound in bed, and then in the solitude of the man's room, he murders him, burns his body in the wood pile and departs to a neighbouring hotel." She continued, earning a kiss on the cheek from her partner.

"The blood-stains in the room and also on the stick are very slight. It is probable that he imagined his crime to be a bloodless one, and hoped that if the body were consumed it would hide all traces of the method of his death-"

"Traces which, for some reason, must have pointed the finger at him; Is not all of this a little bit obvious?"

"No, Mrs Holmes, it most certainly is not."

"It strikes me, my good Lestrade, as being just a trifle too obvious," said Holmes. "You do not add imagination to your other great qualities, but if you could for one moment put yourself in the place of this young man, would you choose the very night after the will had been made to commit your crime? Would it not seem dangerous to you to make so very close a relation between the two incidents? Again, would you choose an occasion when you are known to be in the house, when a servant has let you in? And, finally, would you take the great pains to conceal the body, and yet leave your own stick as a sign that you were the criminal? Confess, Lestrade, that all this is very unlikely."

"As to the stick, Mr. Holmes, you know as well as I do that a criminal is often flurried, and does such things, which a cool man would avoid. He was very likely afraid to go back to the room. Give me another theory that would fit the facts."

"I could very easily give you half a dozen," said Holmes. "Here for example, is a very possible and even probable one. I make you a free present of it. The older man is showing documents which are of evident value. A passing tramp sees them through the window, the blind of which is only half down. Exit the solicitor. Enter the tramp! He seizes a stick, which he observes there, kills Oldacre, and departs after burning the body."

"Why should the tramp burn the body?"

"Well, my dear inspector…" My sister murmured, escaping her love's hold to go stand beside the police inspector, her hand moving to rest lightly on her shoulder which forced her partner to tense up, his eyes narrowing in on the friendly touch. "Why ever should McFarlane?"

"To hide some evidence."

"Ah, but possibly the tramp wished to hide that any murder at all had actually been committed."

"And why did the tramp take nothing?"

"Because they were papers that he could not negotiate." My future brother in law answered, sitting back in his chair though his eyes remained on my sister. I had noticed that, since he returned, he was more protective than before which I did not believe was possible until I witnessed it with my own eyes.

Lestrade shook his head, though it seemed to me that his manner was less absolutely assured than before.

"Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you may look for your tramp, and while you are finding him we will hold on to our man. The future will show which is right. Just notice this point, Mr. Holmes: that so far as we know, none of the papers were removed, and that the prisoner is the one man in the world who had no reason for removing them, since he was heir-at-law, and would come into them in any case."

My friend seemed struck by this remark.

"I don't mean to deny that the evidence is in some ways very strongly in favour of your theory," said he. "I only wish to point out that there are other theories possible. As you say, the future will decide. Good-morning! I dare say that in the course of the day I shall drop in at Norwood and see how you are getting on."

When the detective departed, my friend rose and made his preparations for the day's work with the alert air of a man who has a congenial task before him.

"My first movement Watson," said he, as he bustled into his frockcoat, "must, as I said, be in the direction of Blackheath."

"And why not Norwood?"

"Because we have in this case one singular incident coming close to the heels of another singular incident. The police are making the mistake of concentrating their attention upon the second, because it happens to be the one which is actually criminal. But it is evident to me that the logical way to approach the case is to begin by trying to throw some light upon the first incident—the curious will, so suddenly made, and to so unexpected an heir. It may do something to simplify what followed. No, my dear fellow, I don't think you can help me. There is no prospect of danger, or I should not dream of stirring out without you. I trust that when I see you in the evening, I will be able to report that I have been able to do something for this unfortunate youngster, who has thrown himself upon my protection."


End file.
